


Safe and Sound

by leonidaslion



Series: Horse To Water [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam is NOT A NICE GUY and possibly slightly crazy. Or evil. Take your pick.</p><p><a href="http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/123571.html">The Art</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frodobagginsz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frodobagginsz).



Sam realizes that he may be losing his mind. He also realizes that Dean, as accommodating as he has been about Sam’s shortcomings, may very well never forgive him for what he is about to do. He just doesn’t care. Not if this keeps Dean safe with him. Not if it stops the angel from touching his brother again and leaving more of those brands on his body—or worse, on his soul.

It’s been almost a month since he woke with Dean’s terrified thoughts echoing in his head and the reek of angel fouling up the room. A month since Sam caught the angel with its hands all over his brother and its wings fondling Dean’s heart while his soul flickered in futile protest. A month of worrying and researching and planning and reassuring his brother that he’s loved and safe.

Dean is safe because he’s Sam’s and the angel doesn’t get to have him.

His brother used to sleep like the dead, but that was Before Hell and these days he’ll wake with the slightest provocation, so Sam is careful and quiet: using a tendril of power to keep Dean under as he approaches and sits down on the edge of the bed. Dean is pliable like this, and unresisting as Sam tilts his chin up and strokes the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

For a few minutes, Sam forgets that he’s doing this for any reason other than to touch what’s his, what is loved, but then Dean stirs. His brow wrinkles and his mouth purses in an uncomfortable expression and he starts to pull away. Luckily, Sam is quick enough to get his other hand into position and Dean rolls right into it. The strip of metal in Sam’s hand comes alive at the touch of his brother’s skin, and he thumbs Dean’s Adam’s apple as the ends of the band slither together and fuse into a seamless whole.

The spell completes with a flare of energy that goes through Sam’s bones like fire, and the trickle of power he has been using to keep Dean asleep isn’t enough to numb him to such a strong shock. He starts awake—pretty flutter of his eyelashes, prettier parting of his lips—and then flinches again when he finds Sam so close.

It hurts, distantly, to think that Dean is afraid of him these days. But the memory of waking up to the sensation of Dean slipping away from him—of Dean being _dragged_ away from him—hurts more violently and immediately, and Dean isn’t really afraid of Sam anyway. He’s afraid of Sam leaving, and of that dirty thief of an angel coming back to try again, and of not being good enough. Also, Dean was likely dreaming of Hell again, so Sam can’t really hold him responsible for getting confused.

Offering a soft smile, he shifts his hand so that he can rub his brother’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Hey,” he whispers in greeting, and leans in for a taste.

Dean’s body gives a little shiver that Sam doesn’t think his brother is even aware of and he jerks his face away. “Don’t.”

Sam’s smile falters as he hesitates. He doesn’t know why Dean keeps protesting like this: by now he must have figured out that Sam isn’t going to listen to protests that he knows his brother doesn’t actually mean. Protests that Dean _can’t_ mean when he’s always such a good boy for Sam—parting his lips whenever Sam asks and letting Sam put his hands anywhere he wants when he needs to be reassured that his brother is safe by his side.

Dean wants this, obviously and irrefutably. After all, he had a choice between Heaven and Sam, and he chose Sam. If Dean gets a little nervous every now and then, well, the intensity of the bond between them leaves Sam a tad anxious himself sometimes. He isn’t anxious right now, though. Not when his brother looks so very beautiful and vulnerable and _owned_ with the visible seal of Sam’s devotion around his neck.

As Dean starts to sit up, moving away, Sam comes back to himself. He follows immediately, quicksilver fast, and presses his mouth to his brother’s. Dean shudders once but he doesn’t turn his face away again, and when Sam slides his tongue along his brother’s lips, they part for him. He moans, pushing closer and bringing one hand up to cup Dean’s face.

Dean’s hands lift as well to fist Sam’s shirt. Sam can sense his brother’s intention to push him away like some timid virgin, but Dean lacks conviction—doesn’t mean this refusal any more than he meant any of the others—and he ends up just holding on weakly while Sam kisses him.

Kissing Dean is one of the world’s finest art forms, Sam thinks, and he indulges himself until he’s lightheaded and feverish with the taste of his brother’s lips. Then, finally, he eases back and breathes, “I could kiss you for days.”

Dean’s eyes dart to Sam’s and then cut away again. He licks his lips, which are still swollen and wet from their kiss, and says, “You have to stop doing this, Sam. It isn’t—it isn’t right.”

He sounds tired, which makes Sam frown. He knows that Dean hasn’t been sleeping well, but his brother seems even more worn down than Sam thought he was. He probably should have let Dean sleep a little longer before waking him with his claim.

“Maybe you should take a nap,” he suggests, concerned. “You look exhausted.”

Dean’s lips press into a thin line. “I’m not kidding, Sam. You can’t—you can’t keep touching me like this.”

As he strokes Dean’s cheekbone, Sam murmurs, “If you’re worried about the angel smiting me, don’t. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. I’m not—”

“Is it the threat? About tossing you back in the pit if you don’t play nice?” There’s a flicker of fear in Dean’s eyes at the reminder and Sam breaks out into a broad smile. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t need to worry about that, Dean. You’re safe now. The angel can’t touch you: I made sure of it.” Trailing his fingers down his brother’s cheek, he traces Dean’s jaw briefly before moving on to the smooth skin of his neck.

“I’m not—” Dean starts and then goes still as Sam’s exploring fingers encounter cool metal. “What—” he says, and then shuts his mouth and pulls back again. This time, Sam lets him go, watching as his brother raises a hand to his own throat. As Dean touches the smooth metal banding his neck, his eyes widen in a way that makes Sam’s groin throb.

“What the fuck?” he spits, feeling frantically for the catch that isn’t there. “What the—fuck, fuck, _motherfucking cunt_!”

Sam continues to watch, amused by his brother’s reaction, as Dean scrambles out of the bed and dashes over to the dresser mirror to look at himself. After a moment of gawking at his reflection, Dean hooks his fingers beneath the collar and yanks on it futilely, still swearing.

He always did hate being tied down, Sam reflects: preferring the road to the lasting bonds of friends or lovers or even a permanent home. He hates it almost as much as he hates having his emotions on display for everyone to see, and this circle of metal _(Sam’s name etched on the inside against Dean’s skin and Dean’s amulet welded to the front)_ is both. It’s a physical reminder of what they are to each other: a lock and a chain keeping Dean’s soul intertwined with Sam’s, exactly as it should be.

Of course he’s going to freak out a little.

“What the fuck did you do?” Dean yells as he spins on Sam. Then, before Sam can answer, he adds, “Take it off!”

Sam tries not to smile too widely as he shrugs. “I can’t.”

“Bullshit! You put the fucking thing around my neck: you can take it off again.”

“That’s not the way the spell works,” Sam explains patiently, although his fingers are already starting to itch with the need to touch. He thought that the need to constantly reassure himself that Dean is here and his would lessen once the collar was in place, but it seems to have gotten worse: a compulsion instead of an urge. Maybe one of those side effects Ruby was nattering on about when she first told him about the spell.

Oh well. As side effects go, it could be worse.

“We needed a way to keep the angel from trying to take you again, and I found one. I know it’ll take some getting used to, but it works, and it’s permanent, and it’s going to keep us together. Forever. You and me, just the way it’s supposed to be.”

Dean is staring at him: one hand still curled around the metal. His eyes are, absurdly, even wider than before: pupils black pools inside thin, electric rings of green. His jaw works as he tries to find the words to express the emotions roiling around inside of him. As if Sam doesn’t already know how overwhelmed his brother is: how terrified to take this where they both know it’s been going.

Sam’s chest expands with a warm, fond ache. God, he would do anything for Dean: kill, maim, burn. He would go to war with Heaven to keep Dean by his side and, he supposes, the collar is the first step in that direction. Wars are for later, though. Right now …

“C’mere.”

Dean gives him an incredulous look and shakes his head. The laugh that slips from his mouth is a little too wild for Sam’s liking.

“Dean,” Sam tries again, but Dean spins around and starts grabbing the pieces of his clothing that are strewn around the room. His movements are sharp: frantic.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks as he watches his brother stuff the clothing into his bag.

“What the fuck do you think, Sam? I’m doing what I should’ve done weeks ago. Castiel will know how to get this fucking thing off m—”

“No!” Sam snarls, pushing to his feet. His vision blurs with red at the sound of the angel’s name in his brother’s mouth: at the thought of that thief coming within a hundred miles of his brother. He’s at Dean’s side in a moment: gripping his wrist and holding him tight. “It won’t be able to touch you, Dean. Not anymore. You’re mine.”

“Sam,” Dean says. Although he isn’t struggling, his voice is hoarse and wet. Distressing. Sam doesn’t understand why they’re still arguing about this. “Sam, this isn’t—this thing, with the kissing and the touching and the—the collar—it isn’t healthy. I know you’re … confused … right now, but I’ll fix that, okay? I can fix it. You just have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Sam insists. He touches the collar lightly with his free hand. “This proves that. I just locked our souls together, Dean. Forever. You can’t—you can’t trust someone more than that.”

Dean should have been reassured by Sam’s words, but instead he has gone paler than normal and his freckles stand out sharply on his face. “Let go,” he says.

“Can’t,” Sam admits, adjusting his hold so that he can draw Dean even closer. When he nips at his brother’s jaw, Dean tastes like sunshine and honey. “I love you. Need you. And you feel the same way.”

“Sam, I love you, man, but I don’t.” His jaw flexes beneath Sam’s mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. “I fucking _told_ you: not like this.”

“ _Exactly_ like this,” Sam insists without hesitation. Dean can keep on denying it until the sky bleeds red, but they both know the truth. “We both need it.”

Actually, Sam needs more. Needs to be closer, deeper: needs to be engraved in his brother’s skin and heart and soul. He needs to show Dean just how much he loves him so that Dean will finally see that it’s okay, that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that Sam loves him and isn’t going anywhere.

“Need to fuck you,” Sam says before he knows he’s going to, and Dean jerks back. He would have broken free if Sam’s hold on his wrist hadn’t been so tight.

“Sam,” he says, and he’s trembling badly enough now that he has to be aware of it. “Sammy, _please_. Don’t do this. Just.” He licks his lips—quick, enticing swipe of his tongue—and then says, “Just let go of my wrist and we can. We can sit down and talk about this. Okay?”

Stunned, Sam looks into his brother’s earnest, frightened eyes. He never realized just how much the depth of their emotions for each other scared Dean. Terrified him. It is sort of frightening, he supposes: all this time denying themselves, and now they can finally have what they want, and the mere thought of it leaves Sam’s heart beating fast enough that it hurts. It must be even worse for Dean, with his fear of being abandoned and his feelings of inadequacy.

Sam wishes that he could tell Dean how wonderful and perfect he is and have Dean believe him. He wishes that he could promise to stay and have Dean hear him. But either of those things will take a lifetime, and Sam isn’t willing to wait that long. He can’t.

But he _can_ make this easier for his brother.

“Shh,” he says, lacing the sound with power and making it a command.

Dean’s mouth works silently for a moment and then closes. He stares at Sam, voiceless, but Sam doesn’t need to hear the words to know Dean is grateful. He can see his brother’s gratitude in the way that the wild panic in Dean’s eyes dulls to acceptance as he realizes that he has no control over what’s going to happen. Now all Dean has to do is follow orders like the good little soldier he is—all he has to do is maintain that _yessir_ attitude he found so comforting when they were growing up—and he can have what he wants without feeling guilty about it.

This is probably the best gift Sam has ever given his brother.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

Dean strips with no finesse. Despite the calming command, his hands are clumsy and dragging with nerves, and he’s too overcome with emotion to look directly at Sam. His eyes go everywhere else instead: the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the curtained window. When he climbs on the bed, he immediately curls in on himself: bashful.

It’s probably the cutest thing Sam has ever seen.

As he drinks in the shivers of arousal running through his brother’s strong, beautiful body, he thinks that he’ll need to devote some time to teaching Dean just how little he has to be ashamed of—especially in regards to his body, which is muscled and taut and perfect. A moment later, he frowns as his eyes catch on his brother’s single scar: the burn on his left shoulder.

Collar binding or not, Sam is going to have to do something about that scar one of these days. It infuriates him too much to ignore, and he knows that Dean is hurt by the reminder as well: he caught his brother staring at the mark in the mirror two days ago with a strange, unsettling look in his eyes. Maybe Sam can burn the scar clean.

The idea of replacing the angel’s handprint with one of his own is more than a little appealing and he makes a mental note to ask Ruby about the mechanics of something like that before returning his attention to the view before him. After all, Dean deserves his undivided attention.

Sam strips his own clothes off as quickly as possible and joins his brother on the bed. Then, running one hand down his brother’s spine, he orders, “Roll over and lie on your back,” and Dean, of course, obeys. Sam parts his brother’s thighs with a caress and a whisper and then there’s no more talking. There’s only the sound of their breathing and the soft, beautiful noises Dean makes as Sam opens him up and slides home. He weeps as Sam moves inside of him: tears of love and happiness and relief. Sam knows how his brother feels because he’s crying himself.

“Love you,” he says, gripping the collar and changing the angle of his thrusts so that he’s making it good for both of them. “God, Dean, love you so much.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but Sam can read the love in his brother’s twitching muscles, and it’s good, it’s so good, it’s better than he ever imagined.

Later, when he lies with his head pillowed on his brother’s shoulder and one hand toying with Dean’s spent cock, Dean finally parts his lips and whispers, “Castiel.”

Sam waits for another flush of possessive anger to overtake him, but there’s nothing but a deep-seated throb of smug satisfaction. Of course, he can afford to be magnanimous now that he has claimed the prize.

“Shh,” he tells his brother, moving his hand lower. “Don’t worry about the angel. I won’t let it take you.”

As Sam’s fingers nudge at Dean’s swollen, messy entrance, Dean makes an inarticulate, choked noise. He doesn’t move, although Sam can tell from the way his breath speeds that he wants to. He supposes he should relax the compulsion holding Dean still so that his brother can actively participate in the second round, but he’s feeling too languid and lazy to bother right now. Besides, he reflects as he eases a finger inside and elicits another noise from his brother’s lips, Dean doesn’t sound like he minds.

“Gonna take good care of you, baby,” Sam promises.

And he does.


End file.
